The case of the Malabar Rose reached both its climax and its conclusion on the night in which one year ended and the next began. It had taken Dr Watson until the morning of the 30th to obtain an interview with the Great Salmanazar that was not closely observed by one or other of Inspector Lestrade’s officers. When the chance finally arose, Dr Watson, by his own account, gave an excellent performance in the role of bluff old fool, and was able not only to inform the illusionist that the Malabar Rose was being held at Sir John’s house, but also to intimate to him that the evening of New Year’s Eve might be a time when the attention of that gentleman’s police guards was most likely to waver.
Those seeds having been planted, the study in Baker Street became a place where plans were laid and re-laid, where decisions were taken boldly and then quietly reconsidered. Dr Watson reiterated his wish to include at least Sir John and possibly also Inspector Lestrade in the Baker Street confederacy.
‘After all,’ argued Dr Watson, ‘deliberately setting free this Salmanazar chappie so that he can bait the trap for Phillimore is all very well, but what if we lose him? There’d be the devil to pay! We’d become a national laughing stock, Holmes!’
‘We won’t lose him, Watson,’ Mr Holmes returned reassuringly. ‘You and I will dog his footsteps every inch of the way. When it’s clear that he’s found a way of communicating to Phillimore the whereabouts of the ruby, we shall perform a citizen’s arrest and take him back into custody.’
So we began to decide exactly what role each of us would play. It was agreed that Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes, both disguised so as not to startle their quarry, would be responsible for following the Great Salmanazar and making sure he didn’t escape. But, to our great surprise, Mrs Hudson refused to play any role at all, insisting that it was her night off and that she had half a mind to visit a relative of hers in Sydenham, a suggestion that provoked alarm and despondency in equal proportion amongst her co-conspirators.
‘But who will distract all the policemen on duty at Brown’s Hotel, Mrs H?’ Dr Watson asked. ‘That’s the key to this whole thing.’
‘I’m sure we can leave that to Flottie, sir,’ Mrs Hudson assured him.
Sherlock Holmes peered at me over his violin, which he had raised to his chin but had not yet begun to play.
‘And do you feel you have it in you to be sufficiently distracting, Flotsam?’ he inquired.
‘I’m not sure that I do, sir,’ I replied honestly, ‘but I certainly know someone who does.’
It’s fair to say that Miss Peters showed no reluctance whatsoever when I explained to her that she was required, single-handedly, to lure a dozen different policemen away from their posts. If I had expected a display of maidenly modesty, I was to be severely disappointed.
‘Really?’ she gasped, when I explained to her the task ahead. ‘Oh, Flottie, you are an angel! You know how much I always want to help with Mrs Hudson’s plots and plans. No, I don’t think I need you to explain it all in detail, really I don’t. I’m sure it’s all very clever, but you know how I never really understand Mrs Hudson’s adventures until she explains them very carefully right at the end. I think for now I’ll just stick to the policemen, shall I? You know, I’ve always liked policemen, ever since I was six and one of them arrested me for tying fireworks to the door of the post office. Or was it the vicarage? Well, somewhere with a door, anyway.’
When I wondered aloud if Rupert Spencer would altogether approve of her flirting with uniformed policemen, she simply laughed the question away with a little shake of her head.
‘Oh, of course I shan’t tell Rupert. I shall tell him I’m going to the Winter Ball and that I intend to dance all night with the Walters boy. He never seems to mind when I do that. He just smiles and shrugs. It’s most unflattering. Anyway, I’m sure he won’t be jealous however many policemen I flirt with. And if he was jealous, well, that would just be simply too divine…’
‘But how will you do it?’ I asked, marvelling at her confidence. ‘After all, there are twelve of them.’
She giggled rather charmingly at the thought. ‘Don’t you worry about it, Flottie. I have a plan. I’m very good at plans, you know, it’s just that nobody ever notices. I forget it myself sometimes. But don’t worry, it’s all going to be too easy. I shall pick you up tomorrow night at seven. Make sure you are dressed in your very smartest clothes. I shall be wearing that pale blue evening dress and I shall be looking really rather heavenly.’
At which thought she smiled and began to talk about hats.
For all the unusual severity of the winter weather, it seemed that the citizens of London were determined to celebrate the dawning of the New Year with considerable enthusiasm. Right from the moment when the shops began to close on the evening of the 31st, it seemed that everyone from the humble clerk to the rather tipsy costermonger was making his way into town with a mission to drink a toast or two to the New Year, to the Old Year, to Her Majesty, to Olde England, to his fellow topers, perhaps even to the Malabar Rose, which surely, it was generally agreed, should be put on show without further delay.
As a result of this great influx of revellers, the streets were congested, the theatres sold out, and the public houses were heaving with crowds and good humour. At the Tudor Rose, off The Haymarket, a woman dressed as Britannia was singing ribald seas shanties to generous and raucous accompaniment. Down by the river, a crowd had gathered, and bets were being taken on which of two monkeys would be quickest up the mast of the schooner Percival. In at least a hundred different streets small boys were setting off firecrackers, and a hundred different grandmothers were recalling that, when the Duke of Wellington was Prime Minister, young lads used to know some manners. In Trafalgar Square, the pantomime troupe that had been barred from the Regal Theatre in the wake of Salmanazar’s show had decided to put on its own, impromptu performance at the foot of Nelson’s Column; and soon after they had raised their makeshift curtain, a crowd of cheering hearties was roaring on Baron Bounder as he pursued Widow Wellbeloved around the fountains, and was weeping as the principal boy vowed to win the heart of the beautiful princess, even though he had no fortune to his name but a handful of beans and a rather shapely pair of legs.
Before leaving Baker Street and placing ourselves at the mercy of these boisterous elements, Mrs Hudson and I found a little time to talk quietly as we completed our daily chores. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had already left to take up their chosen positions near Brown’s Hotel, positions where they felt they could observe the Great Salmanazar’s movements without themselves being seen. Without them, a restful hush settled over the house.
‘So, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson began when the last pan had been scoured and the last glass polished. ‘If things happen as we plan, by dawn James Phillimore could be in the hands of Inspector Lestrade. What do you think of that, eh?’
The question took me by surprise a little. ‘I suppose that’s a good thing, ma’am,’ I told her. ‘After all, he’s a desperate man. Who knows what he might do?’
‘Yes, desperate to get away from London, Flotsam. And desperate to escape Lavinia Phillimore. Desperate to be with Polly Perkins somewhere where there are no theatres. I wonder, Flotsam, is that really so bad?’
‘But, ma’am, people can’t go stealing things just because they want them!’
‘Can’t they, Flottie?’
I blushed, remembering that Mrs Hudson and I had first met because I, in desperation, had attempted to steal a cabbage from Scraggs’ barrow.
‘Besides, Flottie, James Phillimore hasn’t really done much wrong yet, has he? Oh, I know he’s trying to, but that’s rather different.’
‘But he tried to burn us alive in Mr Perch’s toyshop, ma’am!’
‘Oh, I think we just happened to be in the way when he was trying to destroy the evidence that connected the toyshop – and him – to the Malabar Rose.’
‘And then there’s his wife, ma’am. He seems to have forgotten about her completely.’
‘Well, Flottie, he sent her that pile of notes, enough to keep her in dresses for quite a long time. But you’re right, my girl. It would not do for us to forget Mrs Phillimore, would it?’ She picked up a stray dishcloth and folded it into a neat square, then folded it into triangles, reconsidered, made it once again a square, and placed it carefully on top of a pile of plates. ‘Good luck tonight, Flottie. And remember, if Salmanazar succeeds in getting word to Mr Phillimore about where the ruby is, we can expect the attempt on Sir John’s house to follow very rapidly. You’ll need to be on your toes, girl.’
She had advanced as far as the pantry and was peering into it, her face pensive.
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am, you aren’t really going to Sydenham tonight, are you?’
She favoured me with an approving smile. ‘Of course not, Flotsam. But I’ve got a little idea of my own for tonight that I didn’t want to tell Mr Holmes about. There’s someone I want a quiet word with and this would seem to be my only chance. Which means I may not be back here to guard the ruby tonight if anything goes awry.’
‘You mean the ruby’s here, ma’am?’
‘Wherever else would I keep it, Flottie? Yes, it’s here, though you’re better off not knowing exactly where. Now, if there’s any time tonight when you think things are going wrong, I want you to come back here and keep watch. Lock all the doors and shout for a policeman if anyone tries to get in. And Flotsam? If anything were to happen to me tonight, I’d hate to think of that iced fruitcake going to waste. Do you think you can promise me to get the whole thing eaten in the next few days, while it’s still nice and fresh?’
And with that great weight off her mind, she smiled happily and set about a detailed inventory of all our tinned goods and preserves.
Miss Peters arrived to collect me on the stroke of seven o’clock, and arrived in some style, comfortably ensconced in the Earl of Brabham’s carriage with Carrington, the earl’s coachman, impassive on the box.
‘Well, my uncle wasn’t using it,’ she explained gaily, ‘and Carrington always likes to keep an eye on me, don’t you, Carrington?’
It was hard to tell from Carrington’s delicately raised eyebrow if that was the case or not, but he certainly steered us out of Baker Street with great care, the carriage picking its way through the evening traffic with the quiet dignity of a dowager duchess at a village harvest fair. To my great surprise, our path led not to Brown’s Hotel where Salmanazar was being confined to his rooms, but to the very headquarters of those guarding him, to Scotland Yard itself. There Miss Peters instructed Carrington to set us down, and to wait close at hand for our return.
‘But Hetty,’ I asked as we climbed the steps to the door, ‘who will be here at a quarter to eight on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Well, Flottie, I think quite a lot of people.’ She pulled a small card from her bag and studied it. ‘Yes, honestly. Tonight is the night of the annual Scotland Yard sherry party, which may sound pretty ghastly to you and me, but I’m hoping it’s when all those detectives go absolutely wild on too much amontillado and start throwing canapés at the Lord Mayor of London. I know it’s happening because my uncle was invited, but he said he’d rather spend the night on a bare mountainside with a sabre-toothed tiger eating his entrails, so I rather think he wasn’t planning on coming. So, Flottie darling, we shall jolly well go in and see for ourselves…’
The appearance of Miss Peters in a shimmering blue evening gown seemed to dazzle the sergeant on duty to such an extent that he could barely manage a polite ‘good evening’ as we swept through the door. And when the vision in front of him demanded to see someone very important at once, he had to shake himself a little before he could respond.
‘Er, may I know what it’s about, miss?’
‘Oh, yes, officer, you must hear all about it. You see, it’s the most appalling tragedy, and it’s taking place right now. If something isn’t done soon, I hate to think how it will end. I told the Earl of Brabham that if I came here someone was bound to help.’
‘The Earl of Brabham, miss? Er, yes. Of course. In that case…’ He signalled to a rather pimply youth who was lurking somewhere behind him. ‘Mills, go and fetch down the Chief Inspector. Tell him it’s urgent.’
‘A chief inspector?’ Miss Peters whispered in awe. ‘A chief inspector sounds terribly important.’
‘Oh yes, miss. Of course, if you’d been here earlier, you could have spoken to Sir Marcus Stewart himself, but he’s had to go on somewhere else.’
‘Oh, I’m sure a chief inspector will be quite good enough, officer. I’m sure he’ll be able to sort out everything.’
This touching belief was one she repeated at great length to the gentleman himself when he finally appeared – a tall, rather portly man, grown a little rosy though too much oloroso and an over-indulgence in Scotland Yard mince pies. He listened in something approaching bewilderment as Miss Peters gave him the details of the disaster that only he could avert. The Below-Stairs Ball at the Mecklenburg Hotel was disastrously short of eligible men, she explained; any number of footmen, gardeners, butlers, and the like, had failed to arrive; the housemaids and under-cooks of London were on the brink of collective hysteria for want of sufficient dancing partners; Miss Peters knew that in an emergency you could always trust a policeman, and she had noticed a dozen dashing representatives of the force on duty at Brown’s Hotel, just a short distance from the Mecklenburg…
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ the rosy gentleman replied a little uncomfortably. ‘Those men are on special assignment. Very important work. I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for reinforcements.’
‘Oh, but surely you could spare some of them, Chief Inspector? You see, I have six tickets here and I’d just love to think they were going to proper, manly young men. Policemen have numbers, don’t they, as well as names?’
‘That’s right, miss.’
‘Well, couldn’t you just send, say, the even numbered men along to the ball? I’m sure five or six of your men would be enough to guard anything.’ Her eyes began to go a little misty. ‘And it’s such an important night for all those young girls. They so rarely get to go out. For them, events like the Annual Scotland Yard New Year’s Eve Sherry Party are just an impossible dream…’
It didn’t take long for the chief inspector’s resistance to crumble. Miss Peters was looking particularly fetching that night, and long before she had finished describing the happy lives that the young women of London would live if only they were fortunate enough to marry policemen, I could see that the gentleman before her was utterly captivated. When she finally finished speaking, I swear it took him a full five seconds to notice.
‘Eh?’ he started. ‘Oh, yes. Of course, Miss Peters, of course. I must say, I can’t see why it needs a dozen of them at Brown’s. Six should be plenty. After all, they’ve only got to keep an eye on one chap.’ He turned to the pimply boy. ‘Mills, take these invitations from Miss Peters to the lads on duty at Brown’s and tell the six with the highest service numbers to attend the event at the Mecklenburg Hotel with immediate effect. That’s an order from me personally. Now, ladies,’ he continued holding out his arms to us, ‘perhaps you’ll allow me to help you to a glass of the Lord Mayor’s excellent sherry…’
It took half an hour and two glasses of sherry before Miss Peters and I were able to return to the earl’s carriage.
‘Well, Flottie,’ my companion sighed happily as she flopped down beside me and squeezed my hand, ‘I think that went rather well, don’t you? That nice man seemed so pleased when I told him the earl would be inviting him to dinner. He’s clearly never met the earl, has he? And that’s six of the twelve out of the way already. What fun!’
‘But Hetty, what was all that you told him about the Below-Stairs Ball?’
‘Oh, it’s all true, Flottie. It’s a terrible event and it happens every year. It’s organised by a woman called Mrs Mayhew who’s the sister of Lord Tolpuddle. She thinks it raises the spirits of what she calls the domestic classes. Well, of course, the domestic classes can all think of much better things to do with an evening off than to spend the evening with Mrs Mayhew, so every year all her friends are forced to buy bucket-loads of tickets and then bribe their servants to attend. This year the going rate at our house was five shillings a head, an extra day off over Christmas and either a tray of chocolates or a bottle of port. And even then Reynolds says he had trouble finding any takers.’ Miss Peters rolled her eyes at the thought of it, and looked out of the window. ‘Oh, we’re not moving! Carrington, why aren’t we moving?’
‘You haven’t told me where to go yet, miss.’
‘Haven’t I? How perfectly ridiculous of me. To the Savoy, if you please, Carrington. The Savoy!’
As Carrington jerked the carriage into motion, I found myself worrying that perhaps Miss Peters had forgotten that there were six more policemen who needed to be removed.
‘But why the Savoy?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t we be going to Brown’s?’
‘Oh, no, Flottie! The Savoy is the place! That’s where Sir Marcus Stewart is. You know, the really, really important policeman. The Duchess of Dorset is holding a soiree. And don’t worry, Flottie. I’ve made sure we’re actually invited to this one.’
If you had asked me that morning about the likelihood that I should ever in my entire life attend the soiree of a duchess, I should have laughed at the question. Had I known that such an event was precisely where my day was leading, I should have been seized by so great a fit of anxiety that I should probably never have been able to rise from my bed. However Miss Peters seemed to have no concerns whatsoever on my behalf, merely laughing musically when I pointed out that it was surely not the duchess’s intention to invite anyone such as myself, that she would be highly unlikely to invite even Sherlock Holmes, and certainly not his housemaid.
‘And then there’s my clothes! I can hardly turn up dressed like this!’
‘Nonsense, Flottie! Stay close to me and everyone will think it’s just me being peculiar. They’re used to that. And to be perfectly honest, by the time we arrive they’ll all be rather merry and probably won’t notice us much at all.’
Although it rather saddened me to agree, I had to concede that there was perhaps some truth in this last statement, for our arrival at The Savoy seemed to go largely unmarked by the glittering crowd gathered at the duchess’s behest. Miss Peters guided me rather deftly around a ruddy-faced butler who was there to announce the guests, and then we found ourselves enveloped in the swirl of elegant men and women who eddied around the salon in seemingly inexhaustible waves. It is hard to say exactly how Miss Peters came to be introduced to Sir Marcus Stewart; harder still to say how he came to be clutching six tickets for the Below-Stairs Ball while simultaneously calling for the constable on duty. To this day I am convinced that Sir Marcus was only vaguely aware of the instructions he gave the constable, so intent was he on assuring Miss Peters that her concern for the hapless housemaids of London did her great credit and was a cause that he would dearly like to discuss with her at greater length.
‘Here, Andrews, I have some orders for the men at Brown’s Hotel,’ he told the uniformed officer. ‘The six with the lowest service numbers are to proceed at once to the ballroom of the Mecklenburg Hotel. They are to dance till dawn, you understand. No shirking. I want a full report from each of them tomorrow morning, with full details. And woe betide any of them who try to sneak off to the punchbowl when they should be waltzing! Now, Miss Peters, I was just mentioning the tiger hunting I did in Bengal last spring…’
Miss Peters apparently found the tigers extraordinarily fascinating, for she refused to hear of anything else for a good half hour. Only when at least half a dozen of the creatures had been stalked and dispatched and transformed into rugs did she begin to look around her.
‘Oooo!’ she gasped suddenly. ‘There’s the Bishop of Lichfield! How wonderful! Flottie and I simply adore the Bishop of Lichfield, don’t we, Flottie? Those sermons of his! So uplifting! And so very long! I particularly love that one about kindness to animals. You won’t join us, Sir Marcus? No? Are you quite sure? Oh, well, if you really don’t want to…’
She guided me with the lightest of touches towards an elderly gentleman in a clerical collar and then, quite suddenly and with something very like a footballer’s shoulder charge, diverted me unceremoniously through the door of the salon and out into the hall beyond.
‘Quickly, Flottie,’ she whispered. ‘Back to the carriage!’
‘But why? We’ve done our bit now. And I want to know if he really is the Bishop of Lichfield, or whether you’ve just made that up.’
‘Of course I’ve made it up, Flottie! I don’t even know where Lichfield is. But any minute now that funny little magician is going to be on the run in London and I simply have to know what happens next. Come on, through those doors there. Ho! Carrington! Excellent! Now straight to Brown’s Hotel. And, Carrington… Drive like the clappers!’
Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, in order to be able to follow the Great Salmanazar both closely and discreetly, had taken the decision to disguise themselves as ordinary labourers, and had taken up positions where they could easily observe all the comings and goings from Brown’s Hotel. It was with considerable astonishment that they witnessed the departure of all twelve policeman, noting but not understanding the high spirits with which they made their way to their next assignment; and on seeing them go, the two gentlemen had redoubled their concentration, anticipating at any moment the appearance of their quarry. Mr Holmes, his face blackened and strangely anonymous in the guise of a working man, lurked in an archway opposite the main entrance. Dr Watson, predictably ill at ease in the rough garments he had been allotted, was a hundred yards to the left, on a corner from which he could view both Holmes’ position and the narrow street leading to the hotel’s rear entrance. Helped by the crowds and the darkness, they blended easily into the scene, even Dr Watson appearing in some way camouflaged amongst the array of other flushed and rosy faces that spilled from the public houses around him.
Miss Peters and I, however, had none of those gentleman’s advantages. Rather than blending into the crowd, Miss Peters was dressed with the express purpose of standing out from it, and our arrival in the earl’s grand and ornate carriage could in no way be considered surreptitious. It was hard to see how the Great Salmanazar, or indeed any passer-by, could fail to notice us. Dr Watson certainly did, for he waved at me merrily before remembering his disguise, and turning his wave into an elaborate and bizarre scratching of the head.
‘Keep walking,’ I whispered urgently to Miss Peters. ‘We’ll have to pretend we’re on our way somewhere else. Mr Holmes will be awfully cross if he thinks we’re getting in the way of his plans.’
‘I know!’ Miss Peters decided brightly. ‘In here!’ And before I could do or say anything to dissuade her, she had darted with great swiftness and no little enthusiasm into a public house of the very roughest appearance.
Although I was sure that Miss Peters had never before seen the inside of a London tavern, it soon became equally apparent that this London tavern had never before seen anything quite like Miss Peters. On a less rowdy night, her arrival would certainly have turned every head in the place and would almost equally certainly have reduced the regular drinkers to silence. That night, however, the crowd was squeezed so tightly together that only those in the immediate vicinity of the door were aware of our arrival, and those that were – nearly all of them men – looked at Miss Peters and blinked in astonishment. In reply, Miss Peters smiled back her most winning smile.
‘Oh, Flottie, it’s really rather jolly in here. Much nicer than I imagined. I love men in flat caps, don’t you? They always look so sensible. Now, where’s the waiter, do you think? We shall need a table for two, in the window, so we can watch what’s going on outside.’
Over the din of the assembled company, I tried to explain that there were no waiters in establishments of this sort and that you had to purchase your drinks from the public bar, but from the serene smile on her face it seemed that she could make out very little of what I said.
‘Yes, we probably should have some champagne,’ she shouted back. ‘What a pity we didn’t think to reserve a table.’ She examined the crowds around her again. ‘Really, Flottie, a lot of people seem to be staring at us. It must be my dress. I told you it was simply too beautiful for words. Look, that man in the window looks like a gentleman. I think we should ask to join him at his table, don’t you? It’s just the perfect place to keep watch, and I must say that he looks rather dashing from behind. I do so like a man with broad shoulders.’
I looked to where her finger was pointing and saw a well-dressed young man with brown hair staring intently out of the window. His back was turned to us but even from a distance there was something about him that looked extremely familiar.
‘But, Miss Peters,’ I exclaimed, ‘isn’t that Mr Spencer?’
‘Rupert? No, of course not, Flottie. It can’t be. Rupert distinctly told me that he was going to the New Year gathering of the Kensington and Chelsea Society of Chemists. I remember it because it sounded a more than usually dull way for him to see in the New Year. When I told him I was going to dance all night with the Walters boy, he looked rather pleased and said something about it keeping me out of trouble. So it can’t possibly be Rupert, can it?’
At just that moment the gentleman turned round. It was Rupert.
Miss Peters gave a shriek that was audible to at least two-dozen drinkers, and began to push forward forcefully.
‘Really, Rupert! What are you doing here? Oh, I see it all! It’s some sordid affair, isn’t it? And in a place like this! How dreadful for you! I must rescue you from her clutches at once…’
‘’Ere, what’s this?’ asked a man with a pint of stout who found himself thrust to one side by Miss Peters’ determined progress through the crowd.
‘Gent’s been caught by his missus, Fred,’ his friend told him. ‘Tasty bit o’ goods too. You’d think he’d have the sense to stay at home.’
If Rupert Spencer heard any of that, his only response was to wave cheerily in our direction and then to clear a path for us to his table, where he settled us on low stools and began to chuckle to himself.
‘I should have known it, Hetty! And you, too, Flotsam! As if you two would let all this Salmanazar business go by without taking a hand yourselves. It serves me right for not thinking of it before! If I’d thought about it sensibly, Hetty, I’d have locked you in the cellar before I came out.’
‘Well, I like that! Really! Flottie and I have every right to be here, haven’t we, Flottie? We like it here. And besides, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. You told me you were going to be in Kensington.’
Mr Spencer’s eyes crinkled at the edges. ‘A change of plan, Hetty. I found the Society of Chemists every bit as dull as you had imagined them. And, besides, I thought Mr Holmes might need some help. But tell me, are you not concerned that the Walters boy is without a dancing partner tonight?’
‘Oh, Rupert! As if I care!’ She took his hand fondly. ‘Now tell us, did you see all those policemen going off duty? That was all because of me, you know.’
As she spoke I was watching Mr Spencer, whose profile was framed by the windows behind him, and my eye was caught by a movement in the street beyond. A slight figure moving deftly through the crowds slipped furtively passed the window.
‘Mr Spencer!’ I cried urgently. ‘Who was that over there?’
He turned towards the street, suddenly tense. ‘Where, Flotsam? No, I don’t see.’ Suddenly his knuckles tightened on the back of his chair. ‘By jove! There’s Sherlock Holmes on the move! Come on! The game’s afoot!’
The three of us were on our feet in an instant, pushing through the packed mass of revellers towards the door, but out in the cool of the street we had to pause to look around.
‘The Great Salmanazar must have slipped out while we were talking. Now where… ?’
‘There! There’s Dr Watson, sir! If we cut down Mermaid Alley I think we can head him off!’
‘Excellent! Well done, Flottie. Look, the three of us will move quicker if we spread out, and that way we’ll have less chance of missing them. I’ll take the other pavement. Wave like mad if you need to attract my attention.’
‘Isn’t he wonderful, Flottie?’ Miss Peters sighed as we watched him go. ‘He’s so good at pretending to be masterful. And he really is incredibly handsome, isn’t he? Even though he’s so totally hopeless at polite society, I’m sure there must be hundreds of girls wanting to marry him, you know…’
But I didn’t reply. The chase was gathering speed and we had given the leaders a considerable head start. I had no breath for chatter and found myself at times forced into a half-run in order to keep up. Miss Peters, sensing my urgency, fell in behind me and did her best to follow.
The Great Salmanazar set a fierce pace, leading us first north towards Oxford Circus, then south again, always keeping to the busiest streets where his cover was greater and where it was harder for any pursuer to follow. From time to time I glimpsed him, his collar pulled up and one gloved hand grasping an envelope close to his chest; but more often I was able to keep on his trail by following in the wake of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, who despite the surging crowds were clinging to their quarry with grim tenacity.
‘That letter in his hand,’ I gasped to Miss Peters, ‘it must be a note to Mr Phillimore telling him where the ruby is supposed to be. We’ve got to let him post it, and then we can pounce. As soon as it’s out of his hand, we’re free to grab him.’
Miss Peters nodded. She was a little flushed by now, and it was clear from a number of despairing glances downwards that the damage done to her evening gown during the chase was preying on her mind every bit as much as the fate of the Great Salmanazar. However, before she had time to put her anguish into words, we were off again, and even quicker than before.
Now the illusionist seemed to be moving with a definite plan. He picked his way neatly through the warren of streets that led to Covent Garden, and there I nearly lost him, for on turning the corner I found the market square one seething mass of humanity. Amidst the groups of people walking, laughing, dancing, even wrestling with each other, it was impossible to make out the direction taken by the Great Salmanazar. But just as I began to despair of the chase, Rupert Spencer popped up at my shoulder.
‘Over there! See? It’s Sherlock Holmes. Follow him!’ And he was off in pursuit without waiting to see if I’d understood. Miss Peters and I darted after him and a moment later I saw Dr Watson ahead of me. Following determinedly in his tracks, we soon found ourselves once more in touch with our prey.
Twice we saw the Great Salmanazar approaching post boxes and each time he hesitated with the envelope in his fingertips; each time we waited breathlessly for his message to be dispatched. But on both occasions he looked about him, changed his mind and continued his flight through the crowds.
From Covent Garden we were led onto Long Acre and then down Bow Street and onto The Strand. There an overturned fruit barrow caused a blockage and allowed us to creep much closer to the head of the chase, which was just as well, for when the magician reached Charing Cross, something peculiar happened. He had paused for a moment on the kerb, facing towards the church of St Martin, when a small boy ran up to him, apparently to beg. The Great Salmanazar seemed to be reaching into his pocket to find a coin when something the child said caught his attention and he bent down to listen. The boy signaled with his arm up Duncannon Street, and the magician followed the gesture with his eyes and nodded. I held my breath and waited for the note to change hands, but the boy scuttled away and the Great Salmanazar, gripping the envelope a little more tightly, strode purposefully up Duncannon Street and towards Trafalgar Square.
If any place had become the centre of that night’s bacchanals, it was the great square around Nelson’s Column. That huge space was teeming with merry-makers so that the foot of the column was entirely obscured and the lions that guard it seemed to float on the shoulders of a dancing crowd. Even as we approached, the press grew greater and I found myself carried forward and thrown against Dr Watson.
‘Flotsam?’ he shouted above the hubbub. ‘Are you here? Excellent! Don’t let him out of your sight. It should be any minute now that we need to grab the fellow!’
Then the eddying tide of people drew me away from Dr Watson and threw me into the arms of Rupert Spencer, who grinned warmly and pushed me forward in the direction of Nelson himself.
In the very centre of the square, the scene was one of utter bedlam. As well as the throng of people drinking from flasks or bottles of beer, and shaking hands with everyone, there seemed also to be taking place a pageant of strange and wonderful figures that looked as if they had arrived directly from a medieval carnival. A beautiful princess in a pointy hat and silver robes danced with a boy in a jerkin who, I realised when I was thrown closer to him, wasn’t a boy at all but a fine-looking girl with close cropped hair. Around them, three men dressed as autumn leaves capered in circles, a man in a full suit of armour blundered in circles and attempted to pour brown ale through his visor, and, above them all, on the lip of the fountain, a pantomime horse kicked and whinnied like a thoroughbred.
‘It’s the pantomime troupe!’ Dr Watson yelled when we were thrown together again. ‘They’ve been performing here tonight. Watch out! There he goes!’
I peered through the tumult and saw the dark figure of the magician moving away from the centre of the square, towards a lamp-post where another small boy was leaning, apparently waiting.
‘My word! Here we go!’ Watson roared, and pressed forward keenly. ‘As soon as that note is out of his hand, let’s get him!’
As we pushed and shoved to get clear of the crowd, I saw the Great Salmanazar close on the boy. No word was spoken but the envelope was passed from one to another and the boy took off like an arrow from a bow. For half a second the illusionist watched him go, but then a great cry went up not ten yards behind him and I saw the wiry figure of Mr Holmes bursting from the shadows and hurling himself forward. While the smaller man was still looking up, Holmes dived forward and launched himself horizontally at his prey.
Had Mr Holmes been a yard closer when he leapt, the force of his tackle must surely have crashed the magician to the cobbles and our work that evening would have been done. But that single yard gave the Great Salmanazar a chance to react, and although his movement was instinctive rather than planned, it was enough for the main force of Mr Holmes’ dive to glance off his hip. The force of the collision staggered him, but he rode the challenge with a stoutness and sureness of footing astounding in a man so slight, and, while Mr Holmes’ momentum carried him five yards past, the magician clutched at a passer-by, regained his balance, and took flight.
Now it was a chase in earnest. Disguise was abandoned and all stealth was gone. The Great Salmanazar had a ten yard start over Dr Watson and was running for all he was worth. I followed behind as rapidly as I could, but was quickly passed by a recovered Sherlock Holmes, gaunt and tense and sprinting like an athlete. In open country our prey would have been quickly gathered in, and sensing this the illusionist tried to turn back to the centre of the square, where the thronging crowds promised shelter. This change of direction saved him, for Rupert Spencer had made ground to head him off, and five yards more would have taken the magician straight into his arms. But the sudden swerve changed everything, wrong-footing the younger man and allowing the older to double back and narrowly escape Dr Watson’s clutching fingers.
Seeing this, Mr Holmes was quick to adjust, and he and Dr Watson were able once again to close on the fleeing figure. The Great Salmanazar must surely have been grasped there and then had it not been for the unfortunate intervention of Baron Bounder, the pantomime villain, who chose that moment to lunge drunkenly after a pretty young girl dressed as a daffodil. This lunge took him straight into the path of the detective and his companion, and brought all three crashing down into a heap. Mr Spencer, in swerving to avoid the melee, found himself pitched straight into the arms of the daffodil, who took advantage of this astonishing good fortune by holding onto him tightly and kissing him as many times as she could before he was able to escape.
While this catastrophe untangled itself, the Great Salmanazar had broken clear of the pursuing pack and I saw him pause and look around. But at this point it seemed that his luck had changed, for his momentum had carried him almost exactly to the spot where Miss Peters had halted to remove her beautiful and totally impractical shoes, one of which appeared to have shed its heel. On looking up and finding herself face to face with the object of our pursuit, she squealed excitedly and, with great presence of mind, threw her fur stole over his head and kicked him in the shins.
This unexpected assault clearly disconcerted the little magician, and it took him a few moments to extricate himself, first from the fur, then from Miss Peters. Finally shaking himself free, and realising that his pursuers had begun to pick themselves up and re-group, he looked around and seemed to make a decision. His haphazard progress had now taken him to the part of Trafalgar Square that faced the Admiralty Arch. Perhaps the sight of the Mall beyond offered him respite from the chaos of the square, or perhaps his eye was caught by the pink and yellow costume of the pantomime horse, which had abandoned its place by the fountains and was now dancing for a small group of admirers under the Arch itself. Whatever his reasons, the Great Salmanazar set off in that direction, still with a lead of twenty yards over the pursing pack, which now, rather to my surprise, had me at its head.
Had the fugitive kept to his course and taken the chase onto the Mall, he must surely have escaped, for the various mishaps behind him had taken their toll, and none of the men giving chase were moving as freely as they had before. However, at that precise moment, the pantomime horse finished its dance and for no obvious reason jogged off placidly into a little alley that ran away to the left. The Great Salmanazar, perhaps hoping for narrow streets to hide in, paused and looked behind him, hesitated, and then darted after the horse and into the alley.
‘Yes!’ Mr Holmes cried. ‘We have him! I know that street. It’s a dead end!’ He and I came to a halt at the alley’s entrance and waited for the rest of our allies to catch up. ‘In there!’ Mr Holmes signalled. ‘See where the alley turns to the right? He’s gone round that corner. But the road runs only another fifteen yards before it comes to an end. We have him trapped!’
As if to support Mr Holmes’ grasp of London’s topography, the pantomime horse chose that moment to reappear, shooting rapidly out from around the corner as if startled to find that the Great Salmanazar had followed it there. Finding itself in front of a reception committee, the horse gave a nervous tap-dance and then, sighting the reassuring figure of Widow Wellbeloved drinking gin straight from the bottle, gave a little bow and scurried off.
‘Now,’ said Mr Holmes, ‘let us form a line and advance together. I think between us we will be more than a match for the fellow.’
And so we edged forward together and turned the corner five abreast. It was clear from the very first glance that Mr Holmes’ description of the little back street was an accurate one. The blank walls of high buildings enclosed all three sides of it. No one could possibly escape from it without coming past us.
But the first glance told us something else too. Something had gone wrong. Some trick of magic had been performed. For where we expected to see the great magician, hunted and cowering and ready to surrender, there was no one but a young lad perched jauntily on a dustbin and smoking a cigarette.
‘Scraggs?’ I gasped in bewilderment as the five of us stopped short.
‘Oh, hello, Flot,’ he chirped. ‘And Mr Holmes, and Dr Watson too. How jolly!’ He clambered off the bin, putting out his cigarette as he did so. ‘It’s a funny place, this. I was sitting here having a quiet smoke when two blokes in a comedy horse costume came round the corner. As soon as they saw me, they ran off again, then you arrived. A bit strange, eh?’
‘But Scraggs, what about the man who came in here just after the horse?’
Scraggs stared back at us blankly.
‘A man, Flot? Just now?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, there’s been no one. Just those two blokes in the horse outfit. I’ve been here ten minutes and I can tell you there’s been no one.’
At that moment, with slow, portentous certainty, the chimes of Big Ben began to fill the night around us, and we listened in silence as the great bell sounded twelve times.
‘Midnight,’ observed Scraggs. ‘And since we’re all gathered together so handy, like, perhaps I can be the first to wish you all a very happy New Year.’